All this the young Irishman took in with a sweep of his eye, which instantly after became fixed upon the friars who had faced towards him. They were standing in two or three groups, the largest gathered round an individual who towered above all of them by the head and shoulders. Cris Rock it was, clean shaven, and looking quite respectable; indeed, better dressed than Kearney had seen him since he left off his New Orleans "store" clothes. The Colossus was evidently an object of great interest to his new acquaintances; and, from the farcical look upon their faces, it was clear they had been doing their best to "draw" him. With what success Kearney could not tell; though, from the knowledge he had of his old comrade's cleverness, he suspected not much. There was just time for him to note the jovial air of the Brethren, so little in keeping with the supposed gravity of the monastic character, when the Abbot entering led him up to them, and gave him a general introduction. "_Hermanos_!" he said, "let me present another of my comrades in misfortune, the Senor Don Florencio Kearney--an _Irlandes_--who claims the hospitality of the convent." They all made bow, some pressing forward, and extending hands. But there was no time for dallying over salutations. By this several dishes had been passed through the hatch, and were steaming upon the table. So the Abbot took seat at its head, Kearney beside him; while the Texan was bestowed at its foot, alongside one who seemed to act as vice-chairman. If the table-cloth was not one of the finest damask, nor the ware costliest china and cut glass, the repast was worthy of such. In all the world there is no _cuisine_ superior to that of Mexico. By reason of certain aboriginal viands, which figured on the table of that Aztec sybarite, Montezuma, it beats the _cuisine_ of old Spain, on which that of France is founded, and but an insipid imitation. The monks of this mountain retreat evidently knew how to live, course after course being passed through the hatch in a variety which seemed as if it would never end. There were pucheros, guisados, tomales, and half a score of other dishes Kearney had never before heard of, much less tasted. No wonder at their dinner of the preceding day having left such _debris_ for supper. And the wines were in correspondence--in quality, profusion, everything. To Kearney it recalled "Bolton Abbey in the olden time." Nor ever could the monks of that ancient establishment on the Wharfe have drunk better wines, or laughed louder while quaffing them, than they whose hospitality he was receiving on the side of the Cerro Ajusco.